Forty days is a spiritually significant number. I don’t know why.

• It rained for 40 days and 40 nights – Old Testament

• Moses was on Mount Sinai for 40 days and 40 nights – Old Testament

• Elijah fasted for 40 days and 40 nights – Old Testament

• Jesus fasted and was tempted in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights – New Testament

I could go on. The Bible, Scripture, is filled with 40-day symbolism.

Across all religions, the number 40 is spiritually significant. For example, Buddha sat under the Bodhi tree for 40 days and 40 nights before experiencing Nirvana (some say 49 days; but let’s not let details ruin a good story…).

Tomorrow, November 17th, marks 40 days since Cooper’s death. It is customary in our religious tradition to offer special prayers for the dead on the 40th day of their death.

As I have shared, over the last 39 days, I have cracked the window in the house, left the light on, lit candles, and I have been offering prayers throughout the day for Cooper. I say his name, I talk about him, I remember the good times.

There is a group of women in Tubac, Arizona, family friends, whom my mom calls the “prayer warriors.” They have been praying for Cooper relentlessly.

Prayers for Cooper make a difference. Following the thread of my breath down to the bottom place, I believe this.

God is the breath in the breath.

In my prayers, I frequently ask the already departed—Cooper’s grandparents, family, and friends—to guide him and protect him, to show him the way home.

I reach out in prayer to my departed friends, a firefighter and a retired Marine, men who I know are battle-tested, and I ask them for their help in protecting and watching over my son in the Heavenly places. Because I know these men, and their hardwiring, I know that if they can, they will.

My prayer for Cooper, his soul, is rather simple; spiritual minimalism.

I pray for Cooper’s peace. It’s clear Cooper was not at peace. I want him to know peace down to the pinpoint atom center of his soul, and then infused throughout. Perfect bliss.

I pray for his happiness. A big, fat smile that never leaves. The face of his soul hurts because he can’t stop smiling.

I pray he knows and is surrounded by infinite love. The kind of love that makes you cry because it’s so overwhelming in its goodness.

I pray he is protected from the Harry Potter Dementors, and whatever the equivalent is del otro lado.

You must understand, I believe every person has an eternal soul that will never, ever die. When the soul separates from the physical body at death, it necessarily goes somewhere.

It’s why, when I was recently asked how many children I have, I answered four. I do have four children, one just happens to live in the spiritual realm these days. I will see Cooper again.

I believe Cooper, his soul, is with the Trinitarian God—that is, the Father, Son (Jesus), and Holy Spirit. I cannot prove this to you. Now you understand why it’s called “faith.” I am hoping and seeing, sensing, what is unseen.

But my (our) faith is not unreasoned and uninformed. I arrive at my faith partly through intellect, yes, but mainly through my heart, spirit, and will. I understand and accept my intellect has an upper limit where it no longer comprehends the spiritual dimensions.

In Cooper’s death, I am sensing with my heart. My daily prayer work arises from my spirit. This is not physical, intellectual, or emotional labor; this is spiritual labor.

I’ve never worked so hard.

Friends, as we approach day 40, I would like to ask for your help. Many of you have stated, “Please, let us know what you need, if you need anything at all…”

I accept your grace, and I ask for your prayers for Cooper’s soul today and tomorrow as we approach a spiritually significant cairn.

I am asking you to pray my simple prayer for Cooper, or please, pray your own prayers. Light a candle for Cooper, say his name, smile, remember him, tell good stories—he has some good ones.

I want to let the Universe know Cooper matters. I want to shake the foundations a bit.

Short Cooper Story

We educated all of our children in the primary grades at a local Montessori school. My wife and I have a great appreciation and fondness for all things Montessori.

One day, Cooper went to Montessori—this was in preschool or kindergarten—and the teacher noticed he was picking at his crotch all morning. He could not get comfortable.

The teacher took Cooper to the restroom to see what was going on. What was going on is that Cooper had heisted his brother’s Silly Putty and packed it in his underwear.

You can imagine a big wad of flattened Silly Putty sitting in Cooper’s underwear up against his stuff, and understand why he was picking at himself all morning.